Left behind by Beyond Baroque.

Reposting this from Facebook:
Received a Beyond Baroque fundraising letter which speaks of "the spirit of openness and rebellion inherent in literature and art." Except for the HOLLYWOOD POETRY book, I noticed last spring that my chapbooks were removed from the bookstore (ironic since Scott Wannberg, for whom the store is named, supported poets of all stripes when he worked at Duttons Brentwood). Presumably, my earlier DIY work needed to make way for more saleable exemplars of openness and rebellion. I asked for the chapbooks (excepting those in the BB archives) to be returned; this didn't happen. I do appreciate the times I have attended readings and participated in the past--and how hard people work to continue its existence. But I feel distanced from its current programmng and governing philosophies, and have no further desire to donate.

National Poetry Month--a glass half-full or half-empty?

If you're in the poetry-as-literature community, then National Poetry Month is a decorous, tasteful 30-day variant of Mardi Gras.

You can write 30 poems, one for each day, and cut/slice your art to fit whatever prompts are devised this year.

You can also go to poetry awards functions, where old and younger gods get honored--and communities send out subtle dog-whistles as to who and what poets/poetry/community service qualify for Hall of Fame status.

You can attend and/or participate in literary festivals in venues small and large.

And you can buy poetry books either online or in independent bookstores or dwindling megabook chain shops.

Then, the 30 days are over.

And you may find yourself one night in a second-hand bookstore (as I recently did) with several poetry books to trade for cash/credit and discover that the owner will only take Billy Collins (because he is a Household Name the owner recognizes) and Jack Hirschman (after I tell the owner that he's a surviving Northern California Beat, who has a Name, though not in as large a typeface as Billy Collins).

One can't help but wish that every day could be Poetry Day--without the attempt to compartmentalize it into only one month of ceremony that, for some, serves as lifeblood.

Book consignment deals from a San Francisco independent bookstore's point-of-view.

Allow me to preface this anecdote by stating I actually bought a book from the San Francisco CA independent bookstore (name will go unmentioned, but it's located in the SOMA--south of Market--area) which will be discussed below.  In other words, no hard feelings on my part (particularly since I was able to place copies of HOLLYWOOD POETRY: 2001-2013 and the print version of POEMS BELOW THE LINE in other stores in San Francisco/Berkeley, plus donating copies for resale at the SF Public Library's main branch near City Hall).

A poet enters an independent bookstore.

He asks if the store does consignment deals.

The male employee on the ground floor asks about the genre.

Poetry, the poet says.

Male ground floor employee directs poet to go downstairs.

Downstairs, there is a poetry section as well as arts/entertainment/film books for sale.

Poet goes to downstairs employee behind counter in a work area.

Could you take this book on consignment, asks the poet.

Downstairs employee does a fast flip through poet's book.

Then downstairs employee says something like this:
Why don't you check out City Lights?  They might take this.

[Background: City Lights, located in North Beach, is an overall well-regarded long-running progressive bookstore, still blessed with the presence emeritus of Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  In past years, the store would take self-published chapbooks or non-elite small press volumes by area poets.  This week, though, I notice that the nook under the staircase to the upstairs poetry section is filled with saddle-stitched zines.]

I answer something like this:
It seems like City Lights has gradually stopped selling [these kinds of] poetry books over the years.

The downstairs employee, with no visible heightening of emotion, says something like this:
We don't take consignment books anymore because of those times when authors don't come to pick them up [when the store can't sell them and time is up under terms of the deal.]
And also, people may not know who the author is. [looks at poet]  No offense.

So, I politely thanked him for answering my questions, found a book to purchase and went upstairs to pay the male employee on the ground floor.

End of Anecdote (which may or may not have resonance for poets reading this blog post).

Making an e-mail with a mild complaint about L.A.'s Book Soup public.

I have shopped at (and may likely continue to) West Hollywood's long-running independent book store Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard--across from what used to be the flagship Tower
Records store for Los Angeles.

Sent this as an e-mail a few minutes ago:

Thought I'd put this into free verse:

A TRUE BOOK SOUP STORY

On the night of Tuesday, February 23rd
the author of this poem
went to the ubertrendy Book Soup in West Hollywood.
I've always noticed
that the people working the newstand outside
are friendly.
Inside, the customer
can receive a distinct chill--
the kind of "you aren't our preferred customer" freeze.
Currently at Book Soup,
there are miniature busts
of Charles Bukowski for sale.
I saw a young male Book Soup employee
look at one bust and then imitate Bukowski:
I'M DEAD! I CAN'T DRINK ANYMORE!!!

What could I say in response to the clueless employee?
I paid for my book purchase
and walked outside,
setting my plebian self free
from the tyranny of educated condescension.

Sincerely,
Terry McCarty

P.S. I know all your employees aren't like the one above. But I do feel that sometimes they snap to attention and courtesy for, say, employees of the film and television industries, a bit more than they do for common folk.
[concluded with a sentence mentioning Orwell's now-familiar "some more equal than others" sentence from ANIMAL FARM]

UPDATE 3/7/10: I communicated with the store by e-mail and received assurances as to its commitment to ensuring professional behavior from employees.